Page 6 of Bratva Prisoner
My phone buzzes with another text from an unknown number. The third one today. My hands shake as I pull it from my purse.
You can’t hide forever.
I delete it without reading the rest and shove the phone back in my purse. Time to move again. Standing still makes me an easy target.
The irony isn’t lost on me that the night I decided to forget about Troy temporarily led to the best sex of my life. My friends had dragged me out to some upscale club, insisting I needed to “get back out there” and “show Troy what he was missing.” They meant well, but their solution to heartbreak always involves alcohol and rebounds.
What I found instead was a man who made me forget Troy ever existed.
Maksim Barkov.
Even thinking his name sends heat pooling in my stomach, and my body responds to the memory like he’s still in the room with me. Tall and muscular with long dark hair pulled up into a bun and eyes the color of the ocean. Tattoos covered his arms, and he had the faintest scar that ran from his cheek to his left eyebrow.
He moved with the kind of confidence that comes from never being told no, and when he smiled, it was like being let in on a delicious secret. Everything about him screamed power and control, from his perfectly tailored suit to the way other people automatically stepped aside when he walked past.
The way he looked at me across that crowded club made me feel like the only woman in the room. Not just attractive, but genuinely interesting. When he approached my table, I fully intended to brush him off like I had every other guy that night. But there was something about him… the way he held himself, the slight accent that colored his words, and maybe the fact thathe seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say rather than just getting me into bed.
Though to be fair, we both knew where the night was headed from the moment our eyes met.
Dancing with him was like floating on a cloud. His hands on my waist, possessive but not presumptuous. The heat of his body pressed against mine, solid and reassuring. The way he whispered my name like he’d been waiting his whole life to say it. When he suggested we go somewhere private, I didn’t even pretend to consider saying no.
What happened in that office still plays in my mind like a highlight reel. The way he touched me, like I was made of something rare and breakable. How he kissed me, with a hunger that matched my own. The things he made me feel, sensations I didn’t even know were possible. For those twenty minutes, nothing else existed except him and me and the connection that blazed between us like an inferno.
Which is exactly why I had to leave.
Men like Maksim Barkov don’t do relationships with girls like me. He probably owns half the city, judging by the way everyone deferred to him at the club. I’m a recent college graduate with student loans and a part-time job at a marketing firm where I make copies and fetch coffee. I probably don’t even have that job anymore, thanks to Troy. We exist in completely different worlds, separated by more than just money.
Better to slip away with the memory intact than stick around and watch him lose interest when the novelty wears off. At least this way, I could preserve the fantasy of what might have been instead of facing the inevitable disappointment of what actually would be.
Still, I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I’d stayed. Would he have taken me home? Would we have spent the whole night exploring each other? Would I have woken up in his arms, or would I have found myself escorted out before dawn?
I shake my head, forcing myself back to the present. Fantasy time is over. Reality is a psycho ex-boyfriend who won’t take no for an answer and a police force that couldn’t care less about my safety.
I’ve been staying in different hotels every few nights, paying cash and using fake names. My savings account is hemorrhaging money, but what choice do I have? Going home means making myself a sitting duck. The constant vigilance is exhausting, but the alternative is worse.
My friends think I’m overreacting. “Just get a restraining order,” they say, as if that piece of paper will magically make Troy disappear. They don’t understand that some men don’t respect boundaries, legal or otherwise. They’ve never had someone watch their every move, never felt the constant weight of unwanted attention.
I peer around the newspaper stand again, my eyes scanning every face in the crowd. Still no sign of the Honda, but that doesn’t mean he’s not here. Troy has gotten better at staying hidden lately, which somehow makes it worse. At least when I could see him, I knew where he was. Now I have to assume he’s everywhere.
A group of tourists walks by, loud and oblivious to everything around them. I use them as cover and fall into step behind their little cluster as they move down the sidewalk. It’s not much of a disguise, but anything that helps me blend into thecrowd is worth trying. I’ve gotten good at becoming invisible, at moving through spaces without drawing attention.
Three blocks later, I duck into a coffee shop and order a latte I don’t really want. My stomach is too twisted with anxiety to handle caffeine, but I need the excuse to hang around somewhere safe. The barista is a college kid with purple hair and multiple piercings who looks like she’s seen some things. When I ask if there’s a back exit, she jerks her thumb toward the rear of the shop without asking questions.
“Thanks,” I tell her, leaving a generous tip.
“Stay safe out there,” she replies, and something in her tone tells me she’s been where I am.
I slip out the back door into an alley that smells like garbage and broken dreams. The narrow space feels safer somehow, hidden from the main thoroughfare where Troy might be watching. Just as I’m about to make my escape, a familiar voice calls my name.
“Alyssa?”
My heart stops beating for exactly three seconds before kicking into overdrive. Blood rushes in my ears, and I suck in a breath. I know that voice. I’ve replayed it in my head more times than I care to admit, usually in the quiet moments before sleep when my defenses are down.
I turn around slowly, and there he is. Maksim Barkov, looking exactly as devastating as I remember. Maybe more so, if that’s even possible. Today, he’s wearing a charcoal gray suit that fits him like it was sewn directly onto his body, and his hair is perfectly styled in that effortlessly tousled way that some men just naturally possess. The sight of him steals the breath from my lungs.
“Maksim.” His name comes out breathier than I intended, and I curse my body’s automatic response to his presence. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question.” He steps closer, and I catch a whiff of his cologne—something woodsy and expensive that makes my knees go weak. The scent triggers a flood of memories from that night—of his hands on my skin and his mouth against my throat. “Though I have to say, this is the last place I expected to run into you.”
